From Russia With Hate
by Wilusa
Summary: A shorter companion story to 'The Bear Facts.' A guess at the significance of the Russian soldier, for whom I've invented a name. Written Feb. 2004.


  
  
**_The Great War: Russian front, 1917._**  
  
He saw the horror in the trench, the horror written on the face of the one living man in the strange uniform.  
  
And then he saw the _thing_ in the trench.  
  
_Oh my God._  
  
Since being separated from his unit, Fyodor Grigoriev had come upon several corpses gnawed by an animal. He wasn't a hunter; he hadn't seen tracks, though he might have missed some that a more experienced outdoorsman would have detected. He'd hoped to avoid the scavenger, not confront it. But not for a second had he imagined it was anything larger than a wolf.  
  
This monstrous _thing_, feasting on dead bodies, was actually clothed in a red hat and cape!  
  
He swallowed hard and forced himself to see the creature for what it was: a bear, full-grown, doubtless escaped from a circus or carnival. It must have been trained at some point. But the growl it let out, as it lumbered toward the soldier in the trench, sounded anything but tame.  
  
The soldier aimed his gun and tried to fire, but Fyodor didn't hear a shot. _Must have jammed._  
  
He opened fire himself, but missed the now rapidly moving target. The bear turned and lunged at him.  
  
It was on him, roaring ferociously, before he could get another shot off. One swipe of its paw broke the arm that held his rifle. The beast's weight crushed his chest. But he was conscious long enough to see the blood-covered muzzle inches from his face...to smell the fetid breath...to feel jagged teeth rip his neck.  
  
_Nooooo!  
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.  
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_He opened his eyes and slowly sat up.  
  
The bear was gone, but the condition of the corpses left no doubt that it had really been there.  
  
Fyodor's uniform was torn and bloody, yet his body bore not a single wound.  
  
He sat, trembling, for several minutes.  
  
At last he got unsteadily to his feet, reclaimed his gun, and forced himself to examine all the dead bodies.  
  
He remembered the face of the man who'd been alive when he approached the trench.  
  
The man who, like him, was apparently _still_ alive.  
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**_Next day._**  
  
Fyodor had prowled the streets of a rapidly emptying village for three hours before he spotted the soldier he was looking for, helping with the evacuation. Then he'd stalked him for another hour, waiting to catch him alone.  
  
Now he stepped quietly into the Canadian's path. _Yes, he's younger than me. About the age I would have expected._ _  
_  
The man looked less than pleased to see him.  
  
_He's trying to decide whether to pretend I've mistaken him for someone else, or try to convince me I was in shock and only imagined I was really hurt.  
  
No point in wasting time. I may as well skip the preliminaries._  
  
Fyodor looked the miracle worker directly in the eye and said, in Latin, _"In hoc signo vinces."  
  
_It wasn't hard to read the emotions that flitted across the man's face: astonishment, hostility, bitter resignation. He looked around quickly to make sure they weren't being observed, then said in English, "By this sign..." He paused, clearly waiting for something.  
  
_Good, good. He's cautious, as he should be._  
  
Fyodor was fluent in English. He completed the phrase: "...we conquer."  
  
_"In hoc signo vinces"_--a motto associated with the cross, said to have been divinely revealed to the Emperor Constantine--meant literally, "By this sign you shall conquer." The Knights Templar substituted their own ending. An outsider might know they engraved the motto on their rings, might even acquire such a ring; he wouldn't know their secret twist on the translation.   
  
The Canadian sighed. "I thought I'd gotten away from the Templars. It seems I never can."  
  
Fyodor clutched his arm. In a low voice, he said, "Look, we both know you're no ordinary Templar. I was badly injured--don't try to tell me I wasn't. And you healed me. No one else could have done it.   
  
"Your being a Templar is the final proof. You're the Avatar! We've known for decades that the Avatar of Light is among us...it's you!"  
  
For a moment the man seemed about to deny it. Then a look of utter weariness passed over his face. His shoulders slumped, and he said simply, "I know."  
  
Even though Fyodor had claimed to be sure of his identification, the admission left him briefly speechless.  
  
When he recovered, he whispered, "_Was_ I merely injured, or was I actually dead?"  
  
"Only injured," the Avatar assured him. "But you would have died if I hadn't healed you when I did. Once dead, I couldn't have saved you."  
  
"God has brought us together." Even now, Fyodor could hardly believe it was happening. "I have to talk to you! My name is Fyodor Grigoriev--"  
  
"Pleased to meet you, Fyodor. I'm Henry Scudder. And while I did heal you, I'm in your debt for shooting at the bear and distracting it from me. I thought at first you were aiming _at_ me."  
  
Fyodor shuddered. "At first, I was_. _I didn't know Canadians had been sent here, didn't recognize the uniform, and the light wasn't good enough to show me all the defenders in the trench were wearing the same one. I knew you weren't German, but I thought you might be Austrian. I was hesitating, not wanting to shoot when I wasn't sure who you were. Then I saw the bear, and nothing else mattered.  
  
"Now I believe God was watching over both of us. Much as it pains me, we must have this conversation."  
  
"Pains you?" Scudder sounded understandably confused.  
  
"There's information I need to give you, Henry. I've prayed that I'd somehow have the opportunity, but I never dreamed of meeting like this." He looked around nervously, confirming that no one was within earshot. It seemed safe enough. The streets of a village this small wouldn't see much traffic even in normal times. "You are aware, aren't you, that at some point you'll have to battle an Avatar of Darkness?"  
  
Scudder frowned. "Yes, of course."  
  
"I've _seen_ that Avatar of Darkness. Years ago. A child at the time..."  
  
The frown deepened. "How did you know--"  
  
"**_My_** child!"  
  
It was Scudder's turn to be left speechless.  
  
Fyodor said urgently, "I'm on your side. Please, don't ever doubt that--"  
  
"How can it be?" Scudder cut in. "You're a Templar! You say you're loyal--how can your child possibly be the Avatar of Darkness?"  
  
"My wife..." Fyodor's cheeks were burning. He couldn't meet the other man's eyes. "Plemina was an agent of the Darkness all along, but I didn't realize it until too late. Until she'd learned many of our Order's secrets."  
  
Scudder went white. But after a beat he asked quietly, "What happened? Do you know where she and the child are?"  
  
"I got suspicious and started asking questions. Plemina took both our children--they were still very young--and fled. They were last heard of in the U.S."  
  
" 'Last heard of,' " Scudder echoed. "When? What names were they using? How trustworthy was your source?"  
  
For years Fyodor had tried not to think about the details. "Plemina's dead. She was killed in a train wreck--I don't remember the date. There were thought to be no survivors, but the children's bodies were never found. They'd be young adults now." He looked at Scudder and forced himself to say steadily, "I don't believe the wreck was an accident. The Avatar already had powers."  
  
Scudder's jaw dropped. "Their mother? But...why? She was an ally!"  
  
"Whatever else she may have been, Plemina was a _mother_. She would have kept the children with her at all costs. But they actually had a better chance of evading us without her. A grown woman wouldn't have been able to change her looks much, or eliminate her accent and pass as a native-born American. Once rid of her the children could be adopted, their names changed--by now even I wouldn't recognize them."  
  
Scudder was shaking his head. "A young child caused a train wreck? It's--"  
  
"Unbelievable? I had a detective tracking them, with orders to try to snatch the children and bring them back to Russia. A few days afterthe wreck he was found newly dead, of a broken neck. His head had been twisted completely around on his shoulders." Seeing Scudder's distress, Fyodor said gently, "You use your power to mend broken bones. I'm guessing you were able to do it even as a child. Is it so hard to imagine a child Avatar of Darkness _breaking_ bones?"  
  
"I...suppose not..."  
  
"Their names will have been changed, but--"  
  
Suddenly someone was yelling at them, in a language Fyodor didn't understand. He turned to look at the yelling man, whom he'd never seen before. The man hurled himself at Scudder.  
  
And **_everything_** blew up.  
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Somehow, incredibly, Fyodor was conscious. Aware his legs and an arm had been blown off, aware blood was spurting out of him like water from a broken main, and yet, oddly, wondering why he was finding it hard to catch his breath.   
  
_Was that man who threw himself at Henry a bomber, or a friend trying to save him?  
  
Henry?  
  
**Henry!  
  
**He can't be dead. Oh God, he can't be dead!  
  
_He hadn't told Henry all he should. Talking would be hard, so very hard, with these little wisps of air he was managing to pull into his lungs...he hated to exhale, to let the air go. But he had to try. He gasped out, "Henry?... Can... you... hear... me?"  
  
No answer, just unfamiliar voices telling him not to try to talk. And the effort of saying that much had left him so breathless his head was swimming.  
  
He knew Henry must be either dead or unconscious.  
  
He knew he was sinking into death.  
  
But he had to keep trying!  
  
He was past seeing, past hearing, past making a sound. Yet he stubbornly mouthed the words.   
  
"Name... will be... changed. But... the Avatar is... my daughter Irina."  
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(The End)  
  
  



End file.
